


Just Lucky

by florahart



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: #coulsonlives, Clint swears like it's going out of style, Jarvis is a big help, M/M, Pining like a champ, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, but Clint doesn't know it, destined relationship, shut up I like sap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 07:21:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/florahart/pseuds/florahart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, Clint's known for ages he has the muddled mark on his body that will eventually clear up and show him the name of his destined partner/mate/love-of-his-life/whatever, but at this point, it's more of a pain in the ass than anything else.</p><p>Until it suddenly goes and tells him something completely unexpected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Lucky

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was born of reading a handful of fics in which people have the name of their soulmate written on their bodies. Now, no intent to disparage the trope, because tropes happen because the ideas resonate, but I got to thinking how if you _always_ knew you were supposed to marry Alex Smith, it would kind of take all the getting to know you out of the game, and all the mystery and just, what if you didn' t meet Alex until you were like seventy? Would you just never get to have relationships because you would always know they were bound to fail? Bummer. So I started thinking, well what if the thing only actually manifested when you already knew each other and were compatible, and were ready to/wanted to be together?
> 
> And then this happened.

Some people, Clint thinks, are just fucking lucky. Naturally, he is not one of those people. He runs a finger idly over the blurry mark low on his hipbone and wonders if it'll ever resolve into a name, and more importantly, if he'll ever stop being bothered that he's thirty-eight fucking years old and he still has a blur.

Because okay, yes, it's not a record or anything; there was a guy in Myanmar in 1994 whose mark resolved at age forty-nine, because only just then was his perfect match also ready to love him. Although, as she was seventeen at the time, Clint really hopes his case isn't similar to that in any way but age, because what the fuck, maybe if they were seventy and forty or something, but seventeen? He remembers himself at seventeen and knows how profoundly unsuitable a life-mate he'd have been for anyone, then, and finds it hard to believe anyone is _actually_ prepared for a forever sort of relationship at that point.

And yeah, the theory about the timing of resolution is that it only happens when both people--occasionally more than two, but that's rare and complicated by more than just legal concerns--are actually perfectly matched and ready to commit. But it's theory, because how the shit does anyone prove something like that? It's true that the divorce and abuse rates for mark-matches are low, way lower than statistics would suggest compared to the general population, but still. Maybe that's social pressure. Maybe there's a mutant whose entire power is finding people who should be paired up and making their marks tidily match up--you know, the Yenta Mutation, just like telekinesis or super-healing, although he thinks if it were him he would seriously hope the whole thing happened subconsciously in his sleep because who wants that kind of responsibility for steering other people's lives? Or maybe it's some weird fucking environmental toxin that brings out the letters in the names and also fucks with whatever hormones cause people to bond with each other. Like, say, exposure to lead paint or aspartame.

Fine, actually, that last one isn't it; there have been studies and the stats are no different, both in terms of population percentage that actually have a mark, and the distribution of when they change, among people who drink water, regular soda, or diet soda. He read the study, and it's not why anything happens. Plus, given his seriously irregular diet as a kid, if it were anything ingested, well. He's probably had a period in his life where any given element was either over- or underrepresented, and still, his mark just looks like a hickey, blue-gray and mottled--in fact, although it's kind of dishonest, Clint sometimes lets guys who maybe are interesting enough for a third date think it _is_ a bruise so they won't know he knows for sure they're not Mr. Right, because in the context of an actual sorta-relationship, who doesn't like to keep alive the illusion he _could_ be? 

Mostly, what all this means is that Clint wishes he'd just been born unmarked in the first place. Predestination gives him the willies in a best-case scenario, and the more he looks around at the world, at his own choices in it, then more he has to wonder, is it that the universe is telling him he's never going to be a real adult? That he fucked up somewhere at age nine or something (no something about it; nine is when the circus happened) and he's just going to have a blur forever? He's just going to wait forever for that perfect someone and he's never going to have a real relationship because obviously anyone he's with isn't right and he has to wait for the one that is. Which, that's fucked up, is what that is. Or, what if--and this is highly likely, more now than ever--he gets himself killed jumping off an exploding building, chopper, or vehicle before it's The Right Time, and so he never would have had the right person anyway so he might as well have built a life with someone? What if his perfect someone, who almost certainly is also in a high-risk job because Clint's never actually had repeatedly-satisfactory sex with anyone that wasn't, like, a firefighter or internationally-competitive snowboarder or something and obviously it would be just cruel if the perfect match thing was with someone you didn't want to fuck, what if that person clocked out early, and so again, he's ditching chances at imperfect but long-term relationships? Or that person _didn't_ clock out, but settled for someone else and so now Clint would just be the home wrecker or whatever. Or...the possibilities are endless and this whole game is impossible and it would be _so much better_ if no one had ever worked out how the marks worked, except for how that's kind of impossible what with how it's pretty obvious if you wake up one day with someone's name tattooed on your body and you never went to a tattoo parlor.

Ugh, he really needs some coffee (a lot of coffee, with dessert and someone to talk him down), or an assignment of some kind, because usually, left to his own devices he remembers the only guy he's ever looked at and thought, shit, it would be worth it to fuck up everything here is (was) Coulson, except Coulson doesn't (didn't) have a mark anyway, and it's fucking clear in retrospect, _obviously_ he _should_ have gone for that while he had the chance but now that's clearly off the table and before New York how was he supposed to know he had five minutes left to go for it, so this is the point in his thought process where, over the past several months, he goes out telling himself he is goddamn determined to find someone to love for a significant period, like, a few weeks anyway, which generally means he goes to a bar, knocks back a couple of beers and some shots, hooks up in the bathroom with a closeted young accountant or lawyer slumming it and looking to get his rocks off, and wakes up in the morning sticky and/or with come in his hair, and/or with some guy he definitely doesn't want to fuck again sleeping next to him. When that equation is all 'and', it's usually just the fucked up start of a shitty, shitty day.

Of course, let's review, he's thirty-eight and that is unquestionably not how to find a relationship of substance in the first place, self, you fucking idiot; no wonder it's the path to days made of shit. This is why it would be better if he were just unmarked and free to figure out his own normal relationship with a normal also-unmarked guy like a normal fucking person (or at least able to pretend this is something he can have). There doesn't have to be a picket fence, although he's down with there being a dog, but he can't even get that far when he knows if the fucking thing ever resolves everyone will end up unsatisfied and angry and then they'll break up and have to share custody of the dog and no one needs sad puppy eyes to remind them every other weekend how they fucked up, so why even start? 

Which, of course, explains why he's toweling his hair and putting on a t-shirt and old jeans that make his ass look, well, as good as it is, and heading off base (out of the tower, whatever, same thing, but off tower sounds weird) to find a bar and a guy with no worries about marks. Unlike Clint (because why the hell would anything about his freakish life be normal), most people's are on a shoulder or wrist, maybe an ankle, somewhere it's not hard to get them to show and Clint will see them without trying. He doesn't actually want to fuck up someone else's chance at being normal, now does he? He does have _some_ standards, after all.

Although probably he should instead spend his evening going to a shelter and choosing a damn dog of his own, only what if he's a terrible dog-parent? He needs a dog-parenting partner to make sure he doesn't forget to, like, feed and water on a schedule (which, to be fair, he does _usually_ remember on his own behalf, but not always, so it's a valid concern)? God. So no, he and his ass-hugging jeans are going out.

Nat texts him as he reaches his bike and he glances back and up fifty stories at her window to wave. She's seen the cause of his emotional turmoil and general relationship stuntedness, of course; she's seen pretty much everything ever about him, and nothing about that mark has ever fooled her (also nothing about how he looked at Coulson ever fooled her, but again, that's no longer even relevant so he doesn't know why he's thinking about it now) because she sees things just as clearly, if rather differently, as he does. So of course she knows what he's doing, where he's going. She doesn't disapprove, exactly (or, kinda she does, but she gets it) because Nat is nothing if not practical, but her text still tells him not to do anything stupid. 

She definitely thinks what he's doing is stupid, but she leaves that part unsaid because again, she knows why he's a mess.

She's probably right about all of it. But then, Coulson really should have stuck around; Clint would have showed him a great time.

He drives aimlessly for a while, never actually venturing particularly far before turning and looping back. After a while, he stops in the red neon outside a bar called Duke's to massage a weird cramp in his thigh. As long as he's there, a peek in the window makes it pretty clear this is exactly the kind of bar he was looking for, so he swings his leg over and goes in, his walk cocky as he can make it, knowing as he does that his jeans are advertising everything he wants them to.

Yeah, he's never going to find a relationship going about it like this, because that's not even what he's selling here and deep down he knows it, but the temporary high of an orgasm on someone's tongue is going to have to do for today, isn't it? Hell, it's probably going to have to do forever, if he's honest, and mostly he tries to at least be honest with himself, so yeah. He orders a beer, looks around while he slugs it down, then settles in at the bar with another and waits for one of the six or seven likelies to come to him.

It only takes about fifteen minutes.

Clint's rubbing another cramp out of the same thigh, twisting his leg in its socket, when the sharp tap of a glass landing on the bar next to him draws his attention. Well, or, he lets it look like it does; obviously, he saw the guy (jeans and a jacket, hipster glasses, hair thinning at thirty) walk over here because if he didn't he should turn in his clip and quiver and call it a day. He gives the guy a once-over and a lazy grin, and they start the brief conversation that will lead to the bathroom.

It's unusually brief, even for the kind of thing it is, and in way less than ten minutes they're in a stall, up against the door with their tongues working out who's in charge. Clint's ignoring the maddening itch that the cramp has morphed into in favor of getting the guy's fly open and his own pants shoved down as fast as possible. He hasn't offered a name, and Clint hasn't asked (and vice versa), so everything is grunts and fingers and the occasional scrape of teeth until the guy drops down without warning and nudges at Clint's cock with his nose. Then he looks up sharply, leaning away and lifting a brow over the bright blue eyes the glasses try to hide. 

"What?" Clint asks. "You got, like, standards my dick doesn't meet?"

"Uh, no. Philip know you're stepping out? Not that it's my business, no marks on me, but I don't want to get in the middle of anything so I just need you to tell me it's all good, you know?"

"Ph...what?"

The guy taps the mark, and Clint looks down to see it's no longer a blurry blue-black bruise. Or rather, it's not _only_ that. The halo of purplish is still there, but there are fine golden and black lines that form the familiar shape but now outline and spell words, and even from here, upside-down, Clint can see what they say, because of course he can. Hawkeye.

Clint stares at the guy. "What the fuck. That wasn't there this morning and... Did you, um. Is this a joke? This is not a funny joke. Did Stark put you up to this?"

The guy hangs down there for another minute, assessing Clint's stare, then stands up and buttons his fly. "No, and I don't know a Stark unless you mean the billionaire which, I'm pretty sure I'd know if I knew him." He pauses, then fastens Clint up, too. "Not that you have to answer this because we met ten minutes ago, well or even if we didn't--anyway, since you seem upset in a way that's not, like, you're busted for cheating, why is this not funny?"

"Why would it be?"

"Oh, no, I mean, I get that jokes about 'soulmates' or whatever can be pretty unfunny in general as far as not everyone has one and there are problems with the whole destiny, one perfect mate, whatever--again, not my area, although my sister has one and mostly they're good together--but I feel like this is more specific."

"Uh. It's complicated, but it's also ...there's nothing I could do, literally nothing, to get with that guy in this life. That has nothing to do with this." He waves his hand back and forth between them and frowns. "Jesus, that sounds fucking weird because obviously if I was an asshole I'd say something like that and I can't believe I spent my whole life not being an asshole about the whole thing and...shit."

The guy scrubs a hand over his face. "But you don't still wanna go back to where we were two minutes ago, which suggests I would, in fact, be getting in the middle, yes?"

"Yeah. I guess. I mean. Should I buy you a beer or something?" Clint crinkles his nose. "Jesus Christ, did I just offer to basically pay you for your wasted time? Shit. Don't listen to me." He presses back against the wall and then leans forward, rocks on the balls of his feet and tries to figure out what to do with his hands. Or his body. Maybe his face.

The guy purses his lips and stands there long enough it's a little awkward, because really, two guys, one stall... there should be at least one penis being stimulated, right? Finally, he says, "Okay, so I'm pretty sure this falls four or five miles outside the bounds of our, whatever, contractual obligation to each other, but yeah, I think you oughtta buy me a beer and tell me what's freaking you out. Mostly because I'm kind of afraid if you don't talk about it you're going to go shoot someone."

"You have no idea," Clint says. "No, not--I shoot at things for a living, but not because I, well, no, I mean, there are targets."

"Oh, I feel better." The guy holds out his hand. "Kurt. And just ...have a beer with me so I feel slightly more sure you're not on the edge of either going postal or passing out, yeah? Because I don't need the trauma of someone engaging in mayhem after I turn down sex with them. Then I swear you can go your own way. I mean, I don't care if you want to cheat on Philip, but I would still need you to be okay about it, so." He reaches behind himself and unlatches the stall, poking his head out and going to the sink to wash his hands like they were engaged in much of anything anyway.

Clint stands still for a second then goes and washes his hands, too, but when Kurt heads back to the bar, Clint only follows long enough to get the tab for Kurt's beers, and then he offers a wry grin and a wordless little wave, and goes. He's out the door and back on his bike in seconds, and yeah, he has the shakes, and the options of passing out or shooting someone both sound pretty promising, but right now he needs a mirror and an a word with someone who can explain to him what the shit it's supposed to mean that this mark resolved with one half the bond dead.

Because he's pretty sure when you're killed by a god having a tantrum, your sex life and/or soulbonds ( _God_ he hates the whole concept why is this his life who thought of this) become seriously irrelevant to everyone and definitely do not subsequently pick up from zero to something.

When he gets back to the tower, no one else is around. Nat's probably skulking somewhere (gathering intel no one knows anyone will need until right when they do), but aside from the earlier text, he hasn't heard from her since Monday night, so he has no idea where. Stark spent most of the last four days inventing some kind of kinetic absorption field that can be shaped to deflect in certain ways (like a shaped charge, evidently, although also not like that, based on the twisty expression and 'ummmmno, Barton' response when he'd asked), so he's probably fallen over in a heap somewhere to sleep off whatever the byproducts of genius are. Cap is in the gym because the Yanks had an afternoon home game today, and he usually goes for the cheap seats and then puts on sweatpants and punches things after for them not being the Dodgers (Clint sort of thinks in his shoes he might, like, adopt the Jays or something so it would be a fresh start, but Steve seems to be working on an advanced degree in picking at that scab). And Clint doesn't know where Bruce is (because they all kind of ostentatiously don't keep track of him, like he's free to be who and where he wants – no one thinks SHIELD is anywhere near as relaxed about it, but it's an unspoken Thing amongst the team). 

So that's pretty much everyone. Well, except Thor. Thor's off-world, although since Dr. Foster is still in London, fuck if Clint would actually know if he were back, so maybe amend that to off-world or in the UK, which is close enough to the same for this evening's purposes.

He glances around the common area for no good reason except he's delaying, then heads for his rooms alone, locks the door when he's inside, and strips naked to look in the mirror. The words look backwards to him, but that's hardly an impediment; it's obvious what they say, and worse, it's obvious who they mean. Because there _could_ , in principle, be another Philip J. Coulson in the world between the ages of, like, twenty and a hundred. It's possible. But the golden lines are Phil's signature, split into "Philip J" on top and "Coulson" below. The black highlights trace just around them like some kind of puffy padding protecting them. The whole thing is essentially the shape it's always been, with the purple that was always there filling in the gaps and holes within and between the letters, and everything's a little puffy and red, like it's swollen, like the cramp and itch that brought it all out are a physical wound.

Well, might as well be; everything else about the entire concept hurts.

Clint stares at the mirror for a several minutes, looking down his belly at the thing periodically, and finally gets a cold cloth to wipe at it, to see that it doesn't smudge, doesn't change. That the lines have texture when he touches them with the pads of his fingers or drags the cool cloth over them. That the angle doesn't matter; the words remain.

Finally, he clears his throat. "Jarvis?"

"Sir."

"Do you monitor this room?"

"Your toilet? I do not."

"Can you, for a second?"

"...Just one?"

Clint closes his eyes. "No, but Jarvis, I'm kind of freaking out here and I'm in no mood for AI humor, okay?"

"My apologies." There's a pause, then Jarvis continues, "I surmise that you wish to draw my attention to the recently-altered mark midway between your navel and the lower edge of your right hipbone."

"Yeah. If I need you to look something up for me--"

"I have already determined that the NIH database on 'soulbonds', also known as soul marks, bonding marks, or partner marks, is incomplete, and that various urbandictionary definitions on the subject are questionable at best."

Clint snorts. "Jarvis, how are you real? Did you seriously start with a government entity and a crowd-sourced slang site?"

"Paradoxically, I find that casting a wide net initially quite reduces the amount of time spent narrowing the options later. And, if I may redirect you to the topic at hand, what was your question?"

"Find out about what the shit it means when a name only shows up when the other half is dead. Because I've never heard of it, and the options that come to mind include zombies with romantic intent, me having a fucking psychotic episode for the ages, and your pop playing a seriously awful joke. If it's the last one I might kill him, fair warning."

Jarvis offers a sound that isn't quite _hm_ but conveys the same: that he's looking, distracted, and will respond in a moment. 

Clint runs his fingers over the signature again while he waits, tracing the P and the swooping J.

Finally, Jarvis says, "There is no record of such an event. There are hundreds of cases in which an individual previously in possession of an unresolved mark found that it had vanished when a potential partner died, but zero such as yours." 

"Oh, _perfect_. So, joke, then? Also, potential partner, bull _shit_ ; I've seen all of Coulson at one time or another, usually involving dire blood loss or some kind of horrifying poison, and he didn't have--"

"Before you continue further, I should like to comment. While I suppose a poorly-conceived joke would be possible, based on accumulating data, I should like to propose an alternative theory." Jarvis says. "It has been supposed on at least one occasion that Director Fury is, and while I despise the redundancy of the description, it is apt, a lying liar who lies."

"At least one?" Clint stops and blinks, looking up at the ceiling as though Jarvis actually resides there. "Wait. You think--" He presses his lips together and forces a couple of deep breaths because at this point, passing out out of shock and/or heart palpitations is just going to fuck up his day even worse. Well, okay, that's usually true, but on top of this fuckery, he just does not need. "Explain."

Jarvis waits a beat before responding, somehow silently sounding like nothing so much as a man gathering his argument. "I have observed that he always believes himself to be acting in the best interests of all concerned, but when he acts in a manner as to hide something from one of his team, my own analysis leaves me in disagreement with his choice at least eighty percent of the time."

Clint nods. "Yeah, Fury can be a bag of dicks about stuff, but... give me evidence, man."

"I am compiling it now. Point from which the rest extends: there exists a record in SHIELD's hospital database for an individual whose ID number shows nowhere else."

"How the hell do you have access to that--wait. Stark put you there, obviously."

"It is not well-known that SHIELD has been singularly unsuccessful in removing the aspects of my programming which Master Stark placed in the Helicarrier's systems prior to the Chitauri invasion attempt. Probably because usually I maintain silence in that space unless something happens which draws my attention."

"What drew your attention to the record?"

"I was in the midst of gathering data relevant to your situation when there was an incident. It drew my attention and in considering that I observed the record."

"Uh-huh. Yeah, Stark and I are going to have to talk about security issues at some point--there are actually sometimes good reasons not to poke. Meanwhile, timeframe?"

"Metadata in the file suggests it was created thirty-one seconds subsequent to Agent Coulson's official time of death."

"Coincidence? What else you got?"

"The slot in which Agent Coulson's remains were to have been interred appears to have been occupied since 2008."

"Could still be clerical?"

"A disturbance was reported fifty-four minutes ago in a private room which records indicate is unoccupied and holding nothing. Despite these records, a rotation of four medical attendants has continued entering and exiting the premises since ninety-four minutes after the aforementioned record was created, which was the same time that the group present in the room on its inception exited en masse."

"A disturbance. Specify?"

"Based on sound pickups from nearby rooms, it appears to have been a scuffle, or perhaps more accurately, a brawl. The disturbance lasted ten minutes, and two of the attendants sought first-aid immediately afterward. Subsequent to that, the room ceased to exist in the database, and my pursuit of the topic suggests it was not correctly labeled in the first place as the Helicarrier has no deck 742. At the same time, a room two floors directly below the medical bay came to exist, and after several minutes an individual exited the area."

"Ceased to... okay, so that other choice is... I got nothin'." Clint shakes his head. "Look, what you're suggesting is insane."

"I quite agree. However, an individual whose credentials match those of Agent Coulson has just logged on to the system from a terminal near flight deck, and appears to be in the midst of commandeering transport."

"Mother. Fucker." Clint yanks his jeans back on. "Flight plan?"

"Unknown."

"Unknown? Seriously?" Clint pulls his shirt won over his head and opens the bathroom door to grab a quiver and handgun, tucking the gun into the back of his waistband. The quiver goes on his back, and the bow and his ID are in his hand by the time he toes on his shoes. "Jarvis, can you stay with me if I leave here?"

"Of course, Agent Barton. Take an earbud." Jarvis is silent while Clint grabs one and jams it in his ear, then adds, "If I am to assume the individual who logged in as Agent Coulson is correctly identifying himself, then Agent Coulson's typing is unusually erratic and slow, and it seems to have taken him an inordinately long time to make his way from the original room to the flight deck. I surmise his health is not yet optimal."

"Oh, great. Flight plan yet?"

"I am attempting to redirect him."

"Why? Where's he going?" Clint thumps the button for the ground floor--he'd run, but seriously, fifty-two stories? He's on a schedule. 

"Off the carrier. The issue, however, is that I have reason to believe that regardless of whether he knows in principle how to fly, right now, he may be in no shape. I'm trying to direct him to a conveyance in which Master Stark has previously ridden."

"And installed you in. Jesus, _security_ , Stark."

"Perhaps." Jarvis goes silent again, then stops the elevator. "I suggest a new route for you, as well." The elevator jolts upward, and Clint sighs. "The person logged in as Agent Coulson is en route to the tower."

"Flight plan was to here?"

"No. This person intended to relocate to SHIELD Headquarters. I was able to redirect him to a helicopter, and I am piloting. ETA, four minutes."

Clint shakes his head. "I take back every bad thing I've ever said about creepy AI installations."

"Apology accepted. Please give my regards to Agent Coulson." The elevator opens at the roof level.

"Wait, haven't you told him what you're doing?"

"I have not. As you surely know, you can hear me because you are at home, and through the earbud. I cannot speak everywhere, and there are not voice protocols installed in the helicopter. I thought overtaking control trumped installing and debugging software."

"Right. Okay." Clint starts to jog toward the landing pad, then pauses and hangs back. "Uh, Jarvis, you know if he doesn't know why he's coming here, he's going to be pissed. If he takes my head off, I'm holding you responsible."

"I shall await your wrath. However, I would note that your mark resolved recently, perhaps fifteen minutes, give or take, before the disturbance on the Helicarrier commenced. In addition, earlier you were going to suggest Agent Coulson is unmarked; in point of fact, his tattoo covers his mark, perhaps because as he aged, it was a painful reminder. Based on these things, I suspect, given his first destination, that Agent Coulson may be looking for you."

"Or Fury. Or someone at Medical with the authority to explain what the shit is going on."

"All possible, but, if I may?"

"If you may what? You're already directing traffic and casting aspersions at Fury."

Jarvis doesn't respond directly, but rather, patches through audio from the chopper Clint can see now in the distance. _\--ark, if this is your doing, I will end you. I need answers, not diversions. I need Barton, a-sap._ He pauses for breath, and the audio cuts off as Clint tries to remember how to breathe.

It's definitely Coulson. Well, or a recording of Coulson, who has said each of these phrases to Stark, the first of them at least four times Clint has been present for, although generally not with a rasp in his throat and a pause in the middle to breathe.

Clint walks to the edge of the landing pad and waits, arms crossed, for the chopper to land. It's all he can do to say still, years of skill-specific practice notwithstanding, but he does, holding his position until the blade slows and the door swings ajar.

When nothing else happens, he starts forward, but then a foot comes down, bare to the ankle, followed by a leg clothed in pink scrubs that are either much too short or riding up badly. Clint ducks around the door and leans in, supporting Phil to stand and ignoring everything except his presence. He wants to say hello, or hi, you're not dead, or never leave me again, but it's been a hell of a day, so instead he makes do with just pulling him close, chest to chest, for a minute, and murmuring, "Sir." Then that's not enough so he presses their lips together, and everything in him eases. The mark is no longer a cramp or an itch or a bother; it feels more like a warm glow. His back and shoulders relax. His eyes close. His mouth opens, and there's Phil, letting him in and kissing him back until he needs to pull away an inch to get air and make sure this is real.

"Why-- I was going-- How--" Phil shakes his head slowly, as though clearing cobwebs, then straightens his shoulders and pulls back, pressing his swollen lips together, collecting himself. "Perhaps we should sit down. I assume Stark has furniture here?"

"Some." Clint turns halfway so he's only got the one arm under Coulson's--Phil's--and around his back. "Okay?"

"I'm fine. Shaky, but you know what bed rest will do. Oh _wait_ , you _don't_."

Clint blinks, then snorts. "Do too. I stayed in Medical for like eight days that one time."

"You mean, you were returned to Medical repeatedly over the course of eight days before you finally made good on your escape to the distress of the perfectly nice men and women who were only trying to help. To the best of my knowledge, and believe me when I tell you I was paying attention, the longest you ever actually stayed in bed was three days and two hours."

"After Wichita? Well, that sucked enough. I can extrapolate. Also, _this_ is what we're starting with? Me and hospital beds? ...Okay, I can work with that." Clint can't resist pulling Phil closer against him for a second, and then they start the walk inside. Clint adds, "Jarvis?"

"Sir."

"You wanna let Fury know his chopper is safe? You can't send it back--they'll shoot it down with no one on board to respond to a challenge."

"I am aware. Tell Agent Coulson I'm relieved he is well."

Clint turns his head slightly toward Phil and says, "Jarvis is glad you're here. He'll tell you hi for himself in a minute. He found you, in case you didn't figure that out." 

"I was hoping _you_ were looking? For the same reason I was?"

"Well, yes, but mostly to make sure your name showing up on my body didn't mean you wanted to eat my braaaaains, what with how you were, y'know, officially deceased. He was the one on the stick."

"Which is good, since I'm reasonably certain that even _I_ am a better pilot than to accidentally land here rather than the base landing strip. And no, I can't say I've ever wanted that. Other things, but not that. Before today, I didn't realize--it's complicated."

"Other things?"

"I have a list. I've been working on it a long time."

Clint blinks, then grins. "Maybe we should take it from the top?"

"Or alphabetically. I'm not particular." They look at each other with what Clint is pretty sure are googly eyes, then step through the door.

"Sirs," Jarvis says immediately, "I'm gratified to learn that what Master Stark refers to as our _very slight_ modifications to SHIELD's databases and systems have proven helpful in uniting the two of you. Agent Coulson, I've taken the liberty of _not_ notifying Miss Potts or Master Stark of your presence, nor any of the others, although I will be happy to do so, when or if you wish. SHIELD's efforts to access Tower phone lines or facilities are currently being repelled until I'm directed by you or Master Stark to desist. Meanwhile, if you take the north stairwell down to Agent Barton's quarters, you should encounter no unexpected company."

"Thank you, Jarvis," Phil says. "I apologize for overriding you the last time I was here."

"You're quite welcome, and I'm pleased you're here to tell me. Also, that you apparently did not share with anyone else how to accomplish the task."

"Self-preservation," Phil says. "I like to keep a few skills close to the vest. Job security and all that." He pauses, then says, "Is Agent Romanov in the area as well?"

Clint squeezes again. "We're all here," he says. "Tasha's out, but she'll be back."

"All right. Please do notify Agent Romanov as soon as she is alone and in a secure location, and do tell her I'm with Clint; else she may draw conclusions of her own, and while they may be correct, she might kill me for not staying dead without telling her. I'm sure you can figure out how? The others can wait until morning."

"I concur, and shall begin monitoring immediately. And with that, I withdraw until my presence is requested."

Clint listens to the utter absence of presence both in the room and in the earbud for a few seconds, then takes the piece out of his ear, chucking it onto a side table as he mouths his way across Phil's jaw and turns them toward the north stairs. "You good for stairs?"

"I'll manage. Unless you're on the third floor." Phil shrugs. "But even then, if I get tired, you can carry me."

"That on the list?"

"Is now." Phil lets Clint support him, although it's pretty clear he'd make it on his own if he really needed to.

"So, secret room?" Clint asks. "Seriously? All this time?"

Phil shakes his head. "I've been awake for about six weeks, I think. Date?"

Clint raises his eyebrows. "Didn't check while you were doing flight prep?"

"I had a singular focus, once I knew you were...available. Until then, I'd been mostly busy recovering. Date?"

"September fifth. Unless that was you asking me out; then, yes."

"I'm not asking you out, Barton. I've been waiting nine years for us to both be ready. And yes, about six weeks of being awake regularly, with periods before that where I'd surface most days. They brought PT to me; it was a big room. They brought me newspapers and various other media. They brought my meals. And they somehow failed to mention your recovery or Tasha's continuing presence here in bringing me current on events."

"My what?"

"That you had been recovered from Loki," Phil says. "When I... well. You were lost."

"They didn't _tell you_? Jesus. That's fucking ridiculous, kind of like them not telling _anyone here_ that your dance with the devil ended in you _winning_ , what the fuck. But we're not Fury's good eye. Why the hell would they leave _you_ hanging?"

"Because Fury guessed I would come for you if I knew," Phil says. He shrugs. "At least, so I assume. He's known for years."

Clint shakes his head. "Okay, so if you've been on board for years, and I _know_ I have been, what the hell is wrong with us both?"

"Both too committed to the job and the team to say anything, just in case, I guess. At least, that's what the hell is wrong with me. Although I've known since Tegucigalpa that the shape of my mark used to map perfectly to your sign-off, before I covered it." 

"I had no idea. Guess I'm a little slow." They arrive at Clint's floor and step into the hall, then Clint kisses Phil again and thumbs at the touchpad, tracing a two-finger pattern on the glass. "Come on in," he says. "Obviously." 

Phil smiles gently. "Obviously." He presses another long kiss to Clint's mouth, then steps through the door and Clint closes it behind him. And then they just look at each other.

It feels like the polar opposite of everything that happens when Clint goes (went; that's over now like it's someone else's life. Wow.) to a bar to hook up. It's slow, it's careful, and everything about it feels both comfortable, like home, and frighteningly new. It's perfectly complicated, and overwhelmingly simple, and Clint, who's never really seen the upside of a paradox, decides maybe they're worth another look. He pulls Phil in for another kiss, running his hands up under his shirt and around to his back to hold him close as he licks his way into Phil's mouth, and Jesus, he's not sure he's spent this much time just kissing since he was fourteen and fooling around, and obviously paradoxes are only the first thing he's been overlooking for way too long.

When they take off the shirt of his scrubs (also pink, which, who even knew SHIELD stocked ones with rainbows?), Clint finds that Phil's tattoo has the same golden lines showing through, and he takes the time to trace his own scrawl, to feel the thin ridges like raised welts from a dragged needle or a cat's claw. "I've never seen anyone else's look like this," he says.

"Neither have I." Phil looks at the tattoo and purses his lips, adding doubtfully, "Maybe it will fade with time?"

"Maybe. Actually, we probably should both cover the damn things now."

"Leverage?"

"Leverage. I don't want anyone using me against you."

"I don't know that I'll be doing any more field work, so in a sense it might be moot, but you're probably right; I don't want to be used against you, either. But that doesn't have to be dealt with tonight."

"No, not tonight." Clint brushes his lips over the tattoo and along Phil's delt, up over his shoulder and to the knob of collarbone. Besides the messy scar down the middle of his chest, Phil's thin, thin enough Clint would be worried except that he knows it'll just take time to rebuild muscle mass; everything that makes Phil _Phil_ is obviously there, and if he's rail-thin forever, or if he takes it personally and bulks up until he looks like Steve, that's just fine. Anything in between is just fine. There are no way Phil could be, as long as he continues to _be_ that are not just fine. He kisses along the collarbone and then lifts his head, meeting Phil's eyes. "Just for reference, this had better not be me experiencing a mental health crisis."

"It's not,"Phil says, lifting his hand to Clint's chest and tracing down the front of his t-shirt. "Although, I'm not sure whether to be flattered or disturbed that you apparently think sharing a bond with me equates to a mental health crisis."

"Flattered. Be flattered." Clint drops one more kiss, then steps back, catching Phil's hand. 

"All right, I'll be flattered, and in return I'll hope this isn't some sort of morphine-induced fever dream."

"Oh, good, I'll choose to be flattered, too." Clint grins. "Would it be rushing you to take this to the bedroom?"

Phil shakes his head. "No, not that I would complain if it were."

"Oh, good. Same page."

"Barton, we've been on the same page for years. How is this different?"

"More orgasms?"

"Oh, well in that case." Phil pushes past Clint and into the little hall that leads to bedrooms and bath. A glance to the right tells him the first room is the bathroom, and he glances over his shoulder. "Unless you want to start with shower sex."

Clint laughs. "No, although in the interest of full disclosure I probably ought to mention that the reason I learned why I had this weird itchy cramp thing that turned out to be _your name tattooing itself on my body_ was that I was _in_ a bathroom with a guy named Kurt about an hour ago when he was all, um, does Philip know you're doing this. So I mean, we _could_ start with a shower, if you'd rather."

"And did your adventure with Kurt leave you too exhausted to take me--and I will note here that I am fresh from a very small, very private hospital, so I can't possibly be planning anything _too_ enthusiastic--to bed?"

"What? No. I mean, we didn't--he saw just as things were... Jesus. I don't usually explain stuff like this. We didn't do anything."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

Phil pushes open the door to the left and points, arching a brow in question to which Clint nods, yes, this is the bedroom. Phil goes through the door and says, "Ninety minutes ago I was in a room with a cruel taskmaster making me sweat and whine about my pathetic stamina; I was halfway through the subsequent shower when I noticed the stitch in my arm wasn't just another pull in any of the twenty muscles that are currently pissing me off. So, I don't know, do I smell?"

Clint shakes his head. "No. Or, I don't know, you smell like you, which I never thought I'd get to say out loud. I was thinking more symbolically. Clean start or whatever."

Phil rolls his eyes. "Barton, for fuck's sake, you've wandered off on some kind of booty call or hook-up a hundred times since I've known you, and I've been sequestered, but besides that I'm not a blushing virgin. You don't have to explain a damn thing. Sentimentality is all well and good, and I guess I think we should talk about ground rules given your job is likely to--has, before--involve seduction and God knows what else, but it's not like you're unclean. Anything and everything only counts after the mark shows up."

"Uh, okay then. Good." Clint pulls his t-shirt over his head and moves around Phil, carefully because for all he's leading the way, it's hard for Clint not to be very aware he's still a little fragile. He yanks off his boots one at a time, then undoes the button on his jeans before he hooks a finger into Phil's waistband to pull him close and untie the drawstring. Phil looks down, watching, then finishes unbuttoning Clint's jeans, and since neither of them had bothered with underwear, they're down to bare skin.

Clint runs his fingers down Phil's chest again, not avoiding the scar so much as going around it, and Phil brings up a hand to guide his fingertips to it. "It doesn't hurt much any more," he says. "And you're going to have to touch it sometime, so let's get the first one over with." He pulls Clint with him as he stretches out on the bed, bringing their joined hands to the scar again, then lets him go. "All right, psych consult concluded," he says, and draws Clint's face down to him, kissing him in earnest now, no longer so much exploratory or clingy as purposeful, focused, and with the intention of leading to more.

It takes Clint about three seconds to determine there's a good chance the list of things Phil could kill him with definitely includes his tongue. It would be a good way to go. Still, he manages to pull away eventually, rifling through the drawer in his bedside table and groaning. "My supply situation is a little grim," he says.

"You're talking to a guy who scuttlebutt says kills people--has killed, might be a past-tense kind of thing now--with paper clips, and I'm talking to a guy who uses medieval weaponry to fight off twenty-first century villains. I think between us we can probably come up with something." Phil glances toward the drawer. "What do we have to work with?"

"Mostly-empty bottle of lotion. Zero condoms. Two kleenex left in this box. Nothing else I can guarantee is actually clean." Clint finishes the list and notices it's been like 22 seconds since his lips left Phil's and that is way, _way_ too long. He returns and plants another slow, thorough kiss.

Phil makes a gasping sound that's a little worrying, but Clint stomps down on the impulse to freak out. He wouldn't want Phil to fuss over him-well, okay, not much. He's always been a fan of Phil's hand in his hair, petting him, especially when it was all he could get. But he's not going to treat him like he's fucking _fragile_. Well, or not much. He lifts away. "Okay?"

"Outstanding," Phil says. He's still kind of raspy and maybe he's out of breath for reasons of fitness rather than reasons, like Clint, of wanting to touch/feel/have everything all right now and being a little overwhelmed. "You?"

"Never better. Like, never ever, could not have been, impossible to be, better." Clint feels his mouth moving into what he's almost positive is the sappiest grin that has ever been formed. 

It's okay, Phil has the same expression.

"We're gonna have to put a lid on this at work," Clint says.

"We are. I suggest we try to overload it. Short it out a little." Phil's grin turns wicked and his fingers come between them to grip Clint's dick. Which, okay, better was impossible and still is, but never the less, that's even better, which is true while being impossible. Clint has one second to think how probably there's some kind of physical constant lying dazed on the floor somewhere from how hard it has been knocked out by this shift in how the universe works, and then his _brain_ pretty much shorts out. 

"Phil," he gasps, somewhere between blessing and pleading. "Phil, I. It's so. Phil."

Phil pulls him down again for another kiss as he maintains a slow, grinding squeeze on his dick, and Clint meant, five seconds ago, to roll to the side and make sure he wasn't doing anything fucking stupid like actually crushing the life out of his soulmate the very first time they had sex, but that that has fled completely, and he's mostly just trying to hang on.

When he comes, it's sudden and explosive (okay, _unusually_ explosive) and Clint cries out, although he knows what he says is unintelligible because somehow he's trying to convey, in one raw sound that's mostly vowel all the ways in which he needs, wants, loves, regrets, adores, requires, and anticipates indefinitely. Phil's other hand is on his ass and his calves are wrapped around the back of Clint's knees, and when Clint opens his eyes, Phil's watching him, rocking up against him, a little urgent but also somehow calm. Clint can't stop himself from claiming one more kiss, and then he lifts off a little, swipes his hand through the mess between them, and wraps his hand around Phil's dick now, moving slow and steady and sure.

Phil's orgasm is quieter, and he's barely started to soften before he's asleep, snoring softly. Clint stays a minute, makes sure it's just sleep (he's not fucking _fragile_ , but he _is_ fucking _recovering from being mostly, or at least ostensibly, dead all year_ , so it's okay for Clint to just make sure), and then gets up to get a washcloth. Phil makes a wistful little nose when he goes, and a happy sigh when he comes back, and Clint's pretty sure this is what this whole mark and bond thing is all about and goddamn, if he'd known that he would have tried to force the damn thing to be ready to show up _years_ ago.

"We're both idiots, you know that?" he asks Phil, mouthing words against his shoulder and arranging the blanket over them both. "So fucking stupid to almost never-- _so_ stupid." 

Phil nuzzles in against him, and doesn't answer.

"Agent Barton," Jarvis says, barely above a whisper.

"Yeah?"

"I have not been monitoring, but passive sensors suggest silence. Am I interrupting?"

Clint pulls Phil closer and smiles. "No, not really. What's up? Please tell me Stark isn't on his way somehow. Or Fury."

"Oh, nothing like that. Agent Romanov has been notified. I fear I had to explain the circumstances under which you learned of each other's continued well-being."

"Oh, well yeah. Everyone'll know," Clint says. "At least, everyone we like."

"Excellent. I hoped my reading of your intent was correct. May I be the first to offer my congratulations?"

"Think you already did, man."

"Well, I offer them again. Should you need anything in the night, please ask, but I've already arranged for breakfast delivery at seven, which you are under no obligation to get up and eat."

"You rock, Jarvis."

"Thank you. In addition, you'll be interested to know that Director Fury sent two agents to retrieve the helicopter, but has not yet indicated any great concern over the situation. I believe he stated his position as, 'that bird has flown.' I suspect he will leave you to your reunion."

"Yeah, he will," Phil says muzzily. "Out of his hands and he knows it. Clint, stop talking to the nice computer and coddle me. I've been mostly dead all summer."

Clint laughs. "Jarvis, you heard the man. Talk to you in the morning."

"Good night, sirs."

Clint wraps them up tight and listens to Phil fall back asleep. Some people are just fucking lucky, and somehow, despite everything, that includes him.

**Author's Note:**

> I kind of failed at tags on this. If you think there's a better way to tag this, feel free to say.


End file.
